Today did not, in fact, turn out to be better. I’m not holding out much hope for tonight, either. After a tense eight hours spent working alongside Jonathan, busting my ass to sell as many books as possible, I come home to an empty apartment. Eli has evening appointments, and June’s on night shift at the hospital.
I toast a piece of sourdough, slather it in butter, and inhale every bite along with the bowl of tomato soup that I’ve heated up, acid reflux be damned.
After that, it’s my shower, T-shirt hair wrap, and pajamas routine. Gingerbread happily settled on my lap, I check my computer. My heart does a giddy snow angel when I see there’s a message from Mr. Reddit: Hey, MCAT. Sorry I was MIA last night. I had a rough day at work and decided to cool off with some exercise. It ran later than I’d planned, then I came home and crashed.
I make a sympathetic noise and type, I’m sorry work was rough. But no worries about not messaging—work was shitty for me, too, so I came home, zoned out with a Christmas movie, then went to bed.
Where you had an elaborate sex dream about an aristocratic Jonathan Frost, the devil on my shoulder whispers. A very long, lurid sex dream.
The angel on my other side tuts disapprovingly.
Sorry to hear that, he types. Does work get more stressful around the holidays? If I remember correctly, it’s a busy time of year for you.
My belly swoops. He remembered. It is. I love this time of year, so it’s fun but also exhausting. Once it’s December, I come home at night and pretty much collapse until we close for the holidays.
And after we close for the holidays this year, I’ll have outsold Jonathan Frost and claimed the bookstore for myself again. Glorious victory will be mine!
I let out a villainous cackle and do a spin on my bouncy chair that sends Gingerbread leaping off on a disgruntled meow. When I hear the speakers chime with a new message, I stop my rotations and face the screen.
Don’t go too hard, all right? I want you around for the long run. Can’t talk shit on Willoughby all by myself.
My heart swan dives off a snow bank and lands in a pillow of powdery glee. I smile so hard, my cheeks hurt. And then I impulsively type something so fucking horrifying, I screech as soon as I hit send: Maybe some time we could meet up and talk shit on Willoughby in person.
“No. NO!” I’m about to click delete to unsend the message, but the read receipt pops up. Oh God. He’s seen it. I screech again and slide off my chair to the floor, flailing as I yell, “Why? WHY did I just do that?”
It’s this hellacious day’s fault. First the naughty dream, then Jonathan bringing me hot cocoa that weirdly wasn’t poisoned, the dire bookshop business news, our intense showdown after the Baileys left. My wires are crossed. I’ve finally cracked.
The speaker chimes again with a new message. Scrambling up from the floor, I read what he wrote: You really want to meet in person? You’re not just saying that out of some sad obligation to the guy who’s messaged you every night since you met online?
Damn good question, Mr. Reddit. Do I want to meet him? Yes. But I’m also terrified to meet him. Because then he’ll know all of me. And he could decide that’s not enough or that it’s way too much.
But I’ll never know if I don’t take the risk, will I? What are we going to do, Telegram chat for the next sixty years and never leave the friend zone?
Straightening on my bouncy ball chair, I yank myself closer to the desk and take a deep breath for courage. My hands are shaking as I type. I want to meet you. And I don’t feel obligated. Do you?
It says he’s typing. I bite my lip so hard, it bleeds.
MCAT. Not to freak you out, but I’ve wanted to meet you for months. Obligated is the last word I’d use. I just didn’t want to come off as a creep.
I blink at the screen, stunned. Mr. Reddit, What_The_Charles_Dickens, has wanted to meet me for months.
Is he…into me? Is this meeting as friends? Potential romantic partners? Friends with potential for romance?
I squint at the screen, repeating the words, examining them. I can’t tell. This is why I need Eli and June. They used to tease me about it in college when we were new friends and navigating the dating scene, but they’ve since learned I’m truly clueless when someone is romantically interested in me. Maybe it’s because attraction doesn’t work that way for me or maybe it’s because I don’t easily perceive people’s intent and social cues. If someone smiles warmly and talks to me, I assume they’re friendly and have something they think I’ll enjoy talking with them about. That’s it. June and Eli have to clue me in when someone’s putting on the moves.